Here In Your Arms
by Vociferocity
Summary: In which Hannibal makes terrible terrible decisions and Will is an enabler. Or: There's no place else I could be but here in your arms.


"You want to what," Will asks flatly.

"The FBI are busy arresting the cannibal chef at the awards presentation," Hannibal says. "It will be a perfectly safe investigation. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I don't need to be curious," Will says. "I've been inside his head, remember?"

"That's different." Hannibal gestures at the food on the plates before them. "I'm not talking about his murders, Will. He's a world class chef, don't you want to see where he prepares his...meals?"

The pause makes it obvious that Hannibal, despite his pretenses, is indulging his morbid side.

Will sighs. It's true enough that the killer should be safely in police custody in barely an hour, and if Hannibal wants to go look at a cannibal's kitchen, then why not? He's not likely to get the opportunity again.

"Alright," he says. "We'll go look at his kitchen, if that's what you want."

Hannibal's face is as placid as ever, but Will fancies he can see the hint of a smile tucked in the corner of his wide mouth.

* * *

The freezer is a cavernous, frozen wonderland of stainless steel surfaces and cabinets, and the large shadowed shapes of hanging meat. The enormous double doors they'd entered through were spectacular, with handles only on the outside. Hannibal had told Will to be careful as they went in, as doors like this frequently locked automatically when they closed.

"How much of this do you think is human meat?" Will asks at last, voice echoing strangely. He shines his torch into a dark corner, the polite curiosity in his voice a thin veneer over bone-deep horror. It had been hard enough to rid himself of the lingering shadow of Hobbs. Let this murderer fade faster, he prays desperately.

"Oh, I doubt any of it is," Hannibal says carelessly. "He's a clever man, I'm sure he wouldn't store his kills in plain sight."

"Isn't that the smartest place to hide them?"

There's a sound in the distance, and they stop bickering for a long, tense moment. It doesn't come again.

Then Hannibal shrugs. "I'm afraid in this matter your experience far outstrips my own, dear Will. If you think his meat is here, you're probably right."

Will finds himself feeling irrationally annoyed; there's something about Hannibal's eternally polite manner that gets under his skin like nothing else. "If you didn't think it was here, why even suggest we investigate?" he snaps.

Before Hannibal can reply, the huge steel doors slam shut with a monstrous noise.

The silence after their ears stop ringing is deafening.

"Stop blaming yourself," Hannibal says after a moment.

"Why?" Will asks. "If I'd taken a second to think, I would have known he wanted to check on the restaurant. It's his mistress, the only thing he lives for. He wanted to make sure she was pleased about this award, and I should have known- "

"It doesn't matter- "

"Not 'it's not your fault'? So you're agreeing I could have anticipated this?"

"Stop," Hannibal says again. "We both know it doesn't matter whose fault this is. What matters is we're trapped in a meat freezer, and nobody knows we're here."

"Are you actually panicking?" Will asks in amused disbelief. "The stoic Dr Lecter, panicking? We're not exactly lost forever, you know. The chefs will find us in the morning, even if Jack doesn't know exactly where we are."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees patiently. "They'll find us in the morning, and we'll have frozen solid during the night."

"It's not that cold, don't be a drama queen," Will says, but now he's unsure. It does seem cooler than it had a few moments ago.

"You're shivering," says Hannibal. "Neither of us are attired appropriately. We need to resort to emergency measures, I'm afraid."

He doesn't sound 'afraid' of anything.

"What emergency measures?" asks Will suspiciously.

"We need to huddle for warmth."

Will eyes him sharply. "I'm sure we'll be fine. The FBI are probably already on their way."

"Really," says Hannibal mildly. "You have that much faith in Jack Crawford?"

"Don't start," Will says. "We'll be fine. Ten minutes and they'll be here."

What feels like an hour or two later he's feeling a little awkward and a lot colder, but is no readier to relent when Hannibal brings it up again.

"I'm afraid this time I really must insist," Hannibal says.

"Oh, must you?" Will shoots back a little nastily.

"You're shivering rather badly," he continues calmly. "Your lips are tinged with blue, and you haven't stopped rubbing your hands since we got here. Your sweater is hardly sufficiently warm enough for this chill."

Will wants to punch his smug face, more than a little. The chef brutalized his victims before cutting into them, beat their faces to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp. He keeps his hands to himself.

"I'm fine," he mutters after a long silence. "They'll be here. Stop pretending to worry about me."

Hannibal looks at him, and Will silently dares him to say something like: do you really think me the pretending type? Lie to me, he thinks furiously. Lie to my face. Show me how little you respect me.

"I hardly think Crawford would appreciate my letting you freeze to death," Hannibal says instead. "Do spare me his wrath, Will."

Will stares into the corner, willing the FBI to show up. Closes his eyes. Swallows. Gives in. This is too ridiculous a mountain to die on, even for him.

"Fine."

It's unsurprisingly awkward, cuddling up to Dr Lecter. They don't fit together nicely, shoulders bumping into each other as they try to find a comfortable position together on the floor. Will flinches as Dr Lecter's arm curls around his shoulder after a long silent moment, can't fight back a shudder as it descends with a weighty finality.

"Well this is cosy," he says sardonically. "Should I rest my head on your shoulder?"

"If you would be more comfortable," Dr Lecter replies, and his voice is steady and his face is still, but Will can tell when he's being made fun of. Or - even worse -

"Are you using this to analyse me?" he asks suspiciously.

Dr Lecter turns his head. "I am your therapist," he says, breath hot on Will's face. "Should I not seek to understand you?"

Will scowls at the floor. "Do whatever you like. You always do."

He shivers, and Dr Lecter - Hannibal - pulls him closer. He closes his eyes, and pretends like this isn't another tiny surrender to the doctor. He's not an idiot. He can tell Hannibal would prefer them to have more than a professional relationship, and lately he's been too tired to object as hard as he probably should.

* * *

When 's next front page picture is of the two of them curled up together in the freezer, Will can't even get mad. He's too busy appreciating Freddie's skill with lockpicks, and her penchant for tracking his phone.

(Hannibal would have been furious; he's a man who likes his privacy, after all, but he's too busy appreciating the latest addition to his scrapbook.)


End file.
